Natural Disasters
by ILoveMyMind
Summary: Maliha Almasi knows precisely what it means to be a figure on the run. So, after hearing the news of Captain America's fall from grace and then finding him floating face up in the Potomac, she figures at the very least, they both have little left to lose.
1. Operation 0 : The Introduction

**Disclaimer: I dipped my pinky toe into the Marvel Universe and ran away - I own nothing but a character and a word or two.**

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**Hello friends and fellow Steve fans. This is my first official foray into the terrifying world of publicly viewed stories. Though I've been in the fanfiction community for ages, and admire many of you here, I've never had the courage to post anything of substance (read: anything. at all.). **

**As a result, this, my first work of fictional riff-raff is likely not the best thing you've ever read, but I'm trying. Please be kind, but leave a review - I appreciate your honesty and feedback more than you could possibly know. **

**That said... Please enjoy**

Natural Disasters

Operation 0 :

The Introduction

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"_Success is the ability to go from failure to failure without losing your enthusiasm" _

_ ~ Sir Winston Churchill_

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It was a warm summer day, the sun's rays pleasantly warming the skin on her neck and shoulders when Maliha Almasi first heard the news. It came as rather a surprise to everyone in the obscure coffee shop at the time, as it seemed every patron and their dog turned to listen as Captain America was discredited before the nation. A terrorist, they called him – a threat to the very organization that had created him. The shop erupted with a series of groans and cries – What was America without its golden protector? – and as Maliha turned to look out the window, deep-set hazel orbs assessing, she thought to herself how it couldn't possibly be true.

The Triskelion stood, imperious and imposing in the afternoon sun and Maliha knew without a doubt that not all was at it seemed within the armor-clad walls of the facility. Not all was as it seemed, here in the capital of deceit. After all, who knew better than she what it was to be a rogue? To be a traitor? None that she could think of, and certainly not the golden boy enrobed in stars.

Captain America – the beacon of hope – she had watched with her own eyes (albeit from a self-imposed distance) that fateful day two years ago in New York when he and his companions had saved the Earth.

That day, even as Maliha had stalked from alleyway to abandoned building to rooftop, drifting ceaselessly through the wreckage, alone, selfish, filled to the brim with cowardice, that man had waded into the thick of it. He'd stepped carelessly into the battle and the danger and he'd pulled children and adults alike from the war-zone – shielded them with his own body – equipped with nothing more than a star-spangled spandex suit and a shield. Maliha thought back to that day and was resolute in her conclusion – these slandering rumors? They couldn't possibly be true.

It was as she thought this that those strange, liquid, witch-hazel orbs of hers caught sight of it. More advanced than the average Joe's, Maliha's eyesight revealed to her things others' did not. And as it was, she saw that, many miles away, across the city and a small wood and the great Potomac River, the previously ordered courtyard at the Triskelion erupted into gunfire. She saw this and also, in her Mind's Eye, she watched as Captain America shielded a small boy's body with his own, watched as he returned the boy to his parents, watched the hope return to their eyes and their hearts. Maliha watched as he helped countless innocents flee and escape the mayhem created by the Chitauri soldiers.

In the background, the TV droned on about the misdeeds of America's most prized hero, condemned him in the face of the very people he fought, always, so hard to protect – whose freedom and liberty were his most treasured wards.

Before she knew what she was doing, Maliha was on her feet. She left a twenty-dollar bill on the carefully antique tabletop before her still-steaming Americano and broke into a full-out run – the wood-trimmed glass door thrown wide and swung noiselessly shut in her wake.

Generally speaking, Maliha didn't really know what she was doing. Specifically, the situation left her feeling even more idiotic than usual. Even as she ran, feet seemingly barely grazing the earth beneath her, she wondered how she could possibly be of assistance accounting the fact that she had no idea what was transpiring, nor the circumstance and pomp surrounding the event. How could she help when she didn't even know for certain whether she was right about the man, that he had been framed, or whether he had truly betrayed his country. Her instincts told her that something was afoot, drove her to consider doing crazy things, forced the muscles in her legs into a state of frantic movement.

Maliha had never run so fast in her life.

The young woman ran for miles with no sign of wearying. Watched (again) with those hazel eyes as events progressed at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. She saw the massive helicarriers rise into the sky, like great birds of prey, and saw too when those same abominations turned upon one another and were destroyed. And as the late-day sky bloomed with smoke, Maliha watched as the Triskelion was ravaged by fire, ran somehow faster still as two men – two soldiers of fortune – fell from the sky.

And even as she kept her pace toward them, Maliha thought to herself, what the hell are you doing? You're not a damn hero.

The truth of it was, Maliha could hardly feel the strain of her frantic flight.

Though her muscles should ache, her chest heave with the effort of sustaining the necessary oxygen levels to keep her muscles performing at peak, the young woman felt nearly the same as she would on her morning strolls through Kenilworth. Not that she never felt strain, rather it was that her body absorbed the actions with an uncanny level of stamina. As it was, the stretch of trees that acted as the final barrier to what she would later refer to as ground zero served only to make her feel more at home. Though to Maliha you could hardly consider the area a wood, her body felt naturally more at ease here than amongst the populous of the city.

She had come so near to the Triskelion now that she could smell the smoke and soot in the air – could feel the way it dredged into her lungs and compromised, if only marginally, her ability to breathe. She could hear, also, the lapping waves of the Potomac, their uneven beat upon the shore a quiet balm to her agitated senses.

Of course, her senses told her also of the man she was here for – confirmed that he was not alone, confirmed that he was likely in danger, if the haggard sound of his breathing and the way water seemed to rattle his lungs were anything to go by.

Her running slowed, Maliha crept into the undergrowth and willed herself still as the grass beneath her heavily crouched form. She watched, weary as a fish in open water, as the Captain was dragged ashore – none too gently, really – by a man in thick black leather, and wondered, not for the first time, what the hell she thought she was doing here. And also what exactly that man, clearly not in his right mind, if the manic aura about him were anything to go by, was made from. Not literally, of course, she knew a human being when she saw one, but that metallic arm… And who could fall from such staggering heights and seem hardly phased by his impact with the water?

Someone similar, she suspected, to the war hero he had pulled, bodily, to the water's edge. If not in mind, then most certainly in ability.

Now more weary than ever (for she had seen the Captain in action, and that was nothing to be trifled with), Maliha held her breath, pressed her palm squarely into the earth, and willed herself one with her surroundings. She was no chameleon, but to detect her here, in an element so natural to her, that would take a man with fearsome abilities, indeed.

But Maliha was a patient woman, and she had endured more uncomfortable positions than this in environs more than thrice this hostile (at least to her, personally). So she watched. And she waited while Black and Silver staggered off into the trees (not so unphased after all, as it turns out) and she could no longer detect the strange mechanic whirring of that creation he called an appendage, nor the unthinking footfalls of his boots as he trailed away.

When at last his steps faded into the near-silent music of the creaking trees and the bugs and the creatures deep within the earth, the young woman rose slowly from her perch in the undergrowth and approached, ever so cautiously, as the bulk of a man on the shore of the Potomac sunk further into respiratory arrest.

Curious of you, Silver, to bother with the act of saving him if you were only going to leave him here to die, she thought.

Wasting no more time, Maliha rolled the soldier's head to the side, pointedly noting the series of injuries across his face and upper body – those that she could see, anyway – and, raising her entangled fists above her head, brought them down as hard as she could on his rock solid pectoral muscles. Though unprecedented in the treatment of the average patient, Maliha saw no other way to get through the man's obvious mass of muscle. The average chest compression was not going to work here.

And despite her internal doubt that such a maneuver could ever be a good idea, she watched in shocked satisfaction as the now semi-conscious man purged himself f the excess water filling up his lungs and collapsed, limp, back onto the rocky beach.

Clearly, the man had gone through hell up there, in what Maliha not-so-fondly referred to as the Devil's Tower, and she felt some sort of grim satisfaction that he had made it out alive – whether innocent of those crimes he was accused of or not mattered little to her in that one regard. His innocence, however, was why she was here. Because she knew all about being forced from her home, her society, on the whims of those with a lust for power. She knew what it was to be cast out. And she knew, more distinctly, precisely what it was to be a traitor.

Steven Rogers couldn't bring himself to betray his own people if he tried. Maliha rather admired that about him. She did not admire, however, the unnecessary bulk of his frame as she army rolled over him and rose, wearing Captain America about her shoulders like an overly large designer scarf.

Scoffing at her own ridiculous thoughts, Maliha turned none-to-gracefully on her heel and trudged back the way she had come, her trek a great deal more arduous now that she weighed almost thrice the amount that she had on her way there.

"You know Captain, I've got stamina for days, but this isn't the way I'd prefer for you to throw my back out."


	2. Operation 10 : A Slow Beginning

**Disclaimer: Do Not Own - The Marvel universe is too great for my weak, mortal brain anyways. **

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**Here we are again, friends, with another short update. I'm hoping to swing into bigger chapters over time, but am trying to get used to getting back into writing again. Please enjoy!**

**And an extra special shout out to my very first followers: Starm88 and HoneyBlossom99. I love you both! You sustain me!**

Natural Disasters

Operation 1.0:

A Slow Beginning

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"Wisely, and Slow. They stumble that run fast."

~ William Shakespeare

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Maliha spent exactly 48.3 minutes mulling over the brute of a specimen sprawled out over her King-sized mattress. It was one hell of a trek back to her modest A-frame cabin in the woods, especially with the added bulk of Captain America on her shoulders, and she'd been more than a little winded by the time they'd gotten there. Enhanced stamina or no, her body was built to sustain herself, not herself and the equivalent of three others.

Regardless, the journey there was a thing of the past now, and her present was occupied with about as much stress and confusion as she could rightfully handle on her own. She wondered, idly, if that burden would be shared when Rogers woke up, or if he would be determined to make her life more difficult. You can never tell with the stubborn sort, and Maliha had an inkling that if the Cap was anything, it was stubborn.

It took all of her patience and some distinctly purposeful mental distractions to undress the man (my god, how did he get the damn suit on and off himself?). Though she wouldn't be so high as to claim that her mind hadn't wandered – those thighs, ladies – dressing his wounds had been a swift affair and she was quick to pull a pair of old grey sweatpants over his hips and covered the rest of him with a light blanket. (She would have to thank her brother for those, at some point. If it hadn't been for his recent visit, she didn't know what she would have done.) If she had to guess, she'd say his wounds would be healed in record time, but broken ribs were no laughing matter, and that gash on his side had needed stitches and a healthy bit of antiseptic.

The waiting part – that was a might bit more difficult for her than the physical exertion had been. Though she was generally a patient woman, watching men sleep wasn't really in her repertoire of acquired skills, and she didn't know what to do with herself. Should she choose to go about her chores and leave the Captain here alone, what sort of mess would he make if he awoke here, isolated and seemingly kidnapped? No, she thought, best to just stay close. The man has likely had his fill of waking in strange places.

So she did what she normally did when she couldn't focus, couldn't force her mind into a state of peaceful serenity – she pulled her supplies from a basket tucked amongst her plethora of books and settled herself at the low coffee table to while away her time.

Drawing had always come as a balm to her. Even as a child, while others were fussing and making a ruckus, Maliha preferred to be tucked into alcoves – reading or sketching or otherwise sticking to herself. Even at a young age, she felt more secure alone than being seen in throngs of people. Probably, she figured, as a result of her curious upbringing. That, however, mattered little. Maliha pushed aside thoughts of her childhood and instead allowed her mind to drift aimlessly as she absorbed herself in the feel of charcoal on paper and listened quietly as the clock ticked away the minutes.

It felt like an eternity before the super soldier on her bed made progress towards consciousness, though Maliha knew it had been only a few hours since she deposited him in a heap upon her mattress. She was just coming out of the kitchen, having made herself a strong cup of tea and a sandwich, when she saw his arm drag itself up from the linens and deposit his enticingly large hand across the brow of his forehead. Well, she thought, I would have a headache too if I had just been thrown from a flying object, drowned, and unceremoniously resuscitated. She observed, silently, as his thumb and fore-finger seemed to massage a point of tension that gathered in the space between his eyes, and she recognized the very moment he seemed to recall the events leading up to his unconsciousness.

His body tensed in the same way that flowing water cascaded into a wave – a single ripple that flowed, gathering momentum and strength as it slowly encased the entirety of his well-defined body. Maliha didn't think that stiff as a board was meant to be a literal comparison until now. That compacted muscle served as excellent momentum, however, as he rose from his reclined position and his head snapped in her direction in a movement that was faster and more aggressive than one could logically expect out of an average human being.

Moving in a deliberately slow and pointed method, Lia placed the dishware she'd been carrying down on a nearby stand and raised her hands, palm open, unthreatening, to the ceiling. "Easy boy wonder," she intoned, as serene as she could force her voice in the moment, "You may heal fast, but there's no need to pop those stitches I just put in your side."

Eyes never leaving her own, the man seemed to categorically take stock of his person – carefully noting the bandages about his chest and midsection and the many cuts and bruises she covered meticulously with a salve only a couple hours previous. His body, she knew on instinct, would likely take more time than he preferred to mend. Those blue, blue eyes watched her warily, though now with a significantly lower sense of agitation, and it was a long while before she made up her mind to speak again.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to put my hands down now. You may be gifted with the muscles of Gods, but my arms were sore even before we began this game of freeze."

Maliha caught the slight change to the man's demeanor - saw the right side of his mouth quirk up in what could only be described as a handsome smirk - and breathed more easily. At least, she hoped, she needn't worry about him bodily injuring her anytime soon. Not that she had complete faith in that assessment - afterall, the war hero hardly knew her from Adam, and she'd done some shitty things in a past life. Things that Captain America would no doubt take none too lightly in his considerations of her.

Although he sat there, pin-straight in her oversized bed, Maliha could have sworn he was almost nervous at his situation. As though he was thoroughly uncomfortable with how he found himself.

It was another long moment, their eyes locked wearily across the room from one another, before the soldier gestured shortly with his hand for her to lower her own and seemed to shake himself into a speaking mood. When he did, however, it wasn't quite as eloquent as Maliha had been anticipating.

"I fell from the helicarrier." He seemed to capture the information from the depths of his memory, pulling it forward through a great fog, and the words dragged from his throat in a sentiment bordering on uncertainty. Or perhaps pain. Maliha supposed dying could do many things to a person. Light amounts of memory loss should not be shocking in the least. She held on to her patience as that blue gaze flickered about her sparse belongings, speculative, until he eventually continued.

"I fell from the helicarrier and the Potomac swallowed me whole."

Well, Maliha thought, that's a dramatic way of putting it. In lieu of her not-so-sympathetic train of thought, she approached the matter from a slightly different angle, "The man you fell with; the one with the metal arm? He pulled you from the riverbed."

Judging by the way the Captain's suddenly stark gaze fell on her, the way his entire body seemed to tense, Maliha quickly surmised there was much more to that story than what likely met the eye. But she knew, also, that she had a better idea of exactly what had transpired on that helicarrier than the man before her would assume. She was no idiot with a computer, of course. And Black Widow had released the S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra information on the internet _hours _ago. What else was there for her to do? Stuck there in that room with a man she knew scarce little about, creepily watching his sleeping form rise and fall with each passing breath. She had to do _something_ to keep her hands and mind busy.

Reading those files, Maliha had grown more and more thankful to her small stature, her lithe physique, than she ever previously thought possible. Had that man - _The Winter Soldier! _\- seen her, hiding there in the brush as he left what was once his best friend on the riverside, no doubt Maliha would have had some serious trouble on her hands. Trouble she wasn't entirely sure she could have escaped from in one piece.

"Bucky pulled me from the river?"

The question was so innocent - pure and full of pain and maybe a little bit of hope. Head quirked slightly to the side in askance, Maliha shrugged, nodded, and watched in fascination as this information seemed to rekindle the spark of hope in a man who literally embodied the sentiment to the vast majority of the population of the most influential country in the world. Perhaps being on ice for 70 years had lost Steve Rogers more than anyone had previously accounted for.

It was only after gleaning that information from her that the Captain seemed to truly take in his surroundings. Although he had appeared to scrutinize her belongings previously, he now looked about her modest abode in a curious manner, absorbing the exorbitant amount of books, the odd knick-knacks, the great sheets of glass in lieu of a south-facing wall. Shifting deftly to the edge of the bed, Steve rose in a fluid, effortless arc of limbs and ambled over to the glass, staring intently into the nest of forest surrounding her home. He seemed almost to peer straight through the foliage and to the ends of the Earth, and Maliha caught herself curious as to just how far his eyesight could take him - how much of the world could he absorb in a single glance?

"We're in Virginia." She explained quietly, unsure as to whether this fact would surprise the man or not. "Not too far from the Potomac, really, if you know where you're going."

He didn't turn to look at her, but Maliha could tell by the way his broad shoulders angled slightly in her direction that she had his attention. "How did I get here?" He asked, quietly. Maliha thought she could discern honest curiosity in the tone of his voice, if not a little trepidation.

This question she wasn't entirely sure how to answer. To lie and keep her safety secured tightly to her chest? Or to tell the truth? To tell the truth and endure the interrogation and come out of it, possibly, with something better than she had now? After years on the run from those unknown and those meant to love her unconditionally alike, Maliha wasn't sure she even knew what it was to trust anymore. But this was no man before her. This was Captain America - a symbol of peace. A creature who fought, tooth and nail, for the freedom of others, even when he had nothing.

Steve turned toward her in the heated silence, brow furrowed as though overly confused as to why she had yet to answer, and it struck her, suddenly, that he didn't even know her name. She was resolved.

"I am Maliha," She said, "And I carried you here on my back."


End file.
